Saturday, 12 December 2015

Her teeth were false and yet were true,
Fulfilled their role as she filled hers.
Her vowels it's said were like cut glass
And so she sounded like a snob,
A member of the upper class,
Her plastic teeth helped do the job.
Her eyes were big and soppy, sad.

He looked quite nice, but he was mad,
(Although his teeth were all his own)
He was quite barking and was prone
To mess things up and make a fuss,
Because he didn't understand
The plot and only wished to act
The part as he would act in life:
To take the woman by the hand,
Not caring she was some man's wife,
Not caring she was cold and posh,
And kiss her lips and suck her teeth
And feel those firm breasts underneath
Her stylish, winter macintosh,
And do such things as man might do,
Alone with woman and Rach. two.

(An article in the Daily Mail explained that Celia Johnson had broken her front teeth in her teens, when she fell on a stoney beach, and that Trevor Howard was a psychopath with very little understanding of the plot of Brief Encounter. He couldn't understand why they didn't just get stuck in, once they were alone.)

Saturday, 5 December 2015

He isn't in the cold air or the old stones,
He isn't in the vicar or the words,
Isn't hiding in the rhythm or the meter.
He isn't in the altar or a candle
Although He might be somewhere in the Handel.
He isn't in the creed or in the pews,
He isn't in the prayers, but in my bones
I know He's somewhere nearby
And if I close my eyes and try
I can find Him in the warmth right by heater.

When lycra content in thine underwear
Is high, intended to control thy flab,
In order for thy saggy image to repair
In profile, before the mirror, in drab
Winter, morning light. Do not haste to dress,
But dress with care, for the elastic strength
Of clothes designed to undertake the stress
Of holding back the bulge acquired through length
Of years is great. And so it doth resist
Thine hauling up, resulting in great harm
To ligaments and muscles. Then desist!
Pull gently, slowly with thy cautious arm.
Or else protect the muscles of thy back
And wear such pants as cut thy self some slack.

Not much united by fine herbs or wine
And pastry's only function's to restrain.
No chopping can disguise or redefine:
The nature of each element is plain.
For venison will never taste like hare,
And rabbit like a pheasant cannot be,
As each thing is itself and we're aware
Of how each creature formally was free.
And how it's former freedom made its taste,
Gave it its character which is unique.
And yet had we the chance would we make haste,
Had we some spell would we restore each beak,
Each hoof, back to its owner, new life grant?
And reason that it had the right to live
As it saw fit, or would we fail, give scant
Consideration to the choice, forgive
Ourselves for thinking of the present?

Tuesday, 1 December 2015

Mr and Mrs Nuance understandThe opposites which lie upon each hand,And weigh them up in every conversation,And live a life of permanent frustration.

Yet still, despite despising rules of thumb,They're sure that this approach is right.Although they know its crassTo draw conclusions. They react with frightWhen one is drawn from their debate. Alas!

For Mr and Mrs Nuance are getting old,Have children of their own who must be toldAbout the dreadful evils in the world.But Mr and Mrs Nuance wouldn't dareTo draw a moral line, they do not careFor old judgemental, black and white, and balkAt the idea of anything so crude,Preferring pastel shades and smudgy chalk;Delighting in the smugness they exude,And love that soft, warm, peachy coloured glow That comes from real balance.

And their children really like their dad and mumBecause they see from every point of view,Like cubists.

Yet it's trueThat where a void is, where there's only silence;Where to argueAnd to defend ideas informed by centuries of thoughtIs thought abhorrent;Where to put both points is always better Than to tell a truth;Where opinion firmly stated on one side Is always inferior to guidance,And guidance is inferior to trust in instinctsSince it still requires a guide,and nobody insists,And morals can't be taught,And we always must be worshippers of youth:Then from the mistsEmerge the milk sops Who will sell us to the DevilAnd condemn us all to Hell.

Monday, 30 November 2015

The storm that drenched the Yorkshire hills in rain,That lashed at Gordale Scar and Malham tarnAnd sent its drops to congregate and merge,And travel where the rivulets converge,Becomes a gushing, noisy, stony streamThat rushes underground. And in my dreamI sense approaching flood. Through market townsAnd drab industrial scenes, through old nightgowns,Through valley bottoms, all along the bed,And clean white sheets. And quilts will not be spared.The liquid flows unstoppable. I dreadTo move but sensing torrent, lie impaired.I'm forty six and still I'm not prepared.Through Keighley, Leeds and Bradford it has flowedSloughed off such rubbish all along its wayAnd clots of flotsam gifts are now bestowed,And still it charges on across the plain,In desperation till it meets the tide.And rises o'er the banks at break of day.

Saturday, 28 November 2015

I sit in blackness and I seem to stare
But yet see solely with my inner eye
And flit about in search of something rare:
The place where thoughts with greater meaning lie,
Waiting for a chance encounter with a butterfly.
I sit in solitude and do not care
I'll find some bright, new flower if I try,
I sit in blackness and I seem to stare
Eluded by this blossom small and fair.
I touch on things which do not multiply,
On war and peace and even upon prayer.
But yet see solely with my inner eye
And inexperienced find only "why?"
No sophisticated daisy chain leads where
Philosophy brings clarity, I sigh
And flit about in search of something rare
A random Googling for something to declare
Unique, original, my own which will defy
All counter argument. Instead I find I share
The place where thoughts with greater meaning lie
With stupid pigs, which come out of their sty
To drag in trivia and to layer
It in between the flowers; and that they satisfy.
I'm a mental Mail Online; I am despair.
I sit in blackness.

Friday, 27 November 2015

I did not understand that there was joyIn long wet miles and freezing icy air,In endless throwing of some half chewed toy,Or combing seeds and burrs from matted hair.I could not know in all my life before,The joy of morning greeting, the renewal.That poem of deep, unspoken love which moreThan any mere aubade can fuelSuch fire as keeps a love alight,Sans jealousy or meanness or suspicion.A flame that burns not with desire;Nor yearning for a meeting of two minds,Is never satisfied but by imagination,But simply re-establishes, confirmsIn gentle nuzzling, or in wild excessOf bouncing, heart-felt, crazy tenderness,A bond of love that binds without condition.

Saturday, 21 November 2015

Do you really think that GodRequires an imbecile like youTo prove that He is "greater?"Can't you recognise the DevilAnd his message of corruptionWhen he whispers in your heartAnd tells you what to do?Do you really think that GodWould trust a coward and a traitor?Don't you recognise the devil?Shall I make an introduction?Mr Iblis, meet a moron,Up till now he's been a fan,Just a passive spectatorBut today he has decided That he really loves destructionAnd his tiny brain cannot containSuch basic informationAs the rather simple notionThat we instil in our childrenGood's superior to evil:So he's ripe for your seduction.He has come to join IsilYour most recent, vile inventionAnd he won't put off till laterWhat he wants to do today.For his cretinous affectionFor your habits, is his affliction,And he's pious in his actionAnd his manner of devotionThough he knows not who you are,Believing you are God,The Divine and the Creator,Yet believes himself to beThe great adjudicatorQuite capable of choosingWho should live and who should die.And he wishes to impress youWith his ignorant intentionAs he blows the world apartShouting Allahu Akbar.

Sunday, 15 November 2015

On this day of making cider in the kitchen,Of crushing apples in the hired press;On this day of standing chopping, bashing, squashing;This day of pulverising flesh;This day of my transformingWhat the passing of three seasonsHad created, whole and perfect, Into something broken, smashed, where stressAnd weight and force and pressureWere applied, and where corruptionWill be encouraged: this day of turning more to less;On this day of life revolvingRound this simple, homely task -Let me remember Those souls who now are passingFrom this life into the next,On this fourteenth of November,And let me ask:Why should we weep and sing the HostiasFor fellow men, who yesterday, perhaps,Were standing, laughing, joking in the kitchen;Why tolerate this derelictionThis insanity that passes for religion,This turning what is lovely, whole and perfectCreated through the passing of each season,Our life and liberty and reason,Into a pint of piss?

Our freedom is not manifest in looks,
A man in jeans and tee shirt with tattoos
With shaven head, and pierced brow or nose
Is no less spied on, no less forced to bide by arbitrary rules,
Than his counterpart in suit and shirt and tie.
And yet he thinks the snook he cocks by turning on its head
The hangover of sumptuary law,
Is sufficient of itself to show he schools
His mind in ways of liberty.
Fashion is a form of tyranny
And laughs at those who don't perceive the irony
Of conforming to a rebel's code of dress,
Believing, as they do, that they themselves
Are quite apart, beneath its reach and able to express
Their individuality.

And it's offered as a panacea for all ills
A hard crust dunked in laudanum to soothe a starving child
And embedded deep within it is the barb:
The idea that we are freer since we appear wild,
That we can portray
Liberty in what we wear,
Embody freedom in our choice of garb,
Blinds us to the truth. In trying to be fair
And put things right,
In trying to make amends for history,

In ignorance, not thinking of the consequences,

Only that which is sufficient to the day,

Such fools have rushed straight in,
And freedom has been trampled, crumbled away.

When day proceeds a night of wakefulness,
One finds that the interior of the mind
Has been reorganised and redesigned
And one feels the strange mistake, unless
One can return to sleep, forsake the less
Than perfect Tudor house and try to find
The Georgian one with corridors. Behind
Each door in this place dreams lurk, make access
Into consciousness with ease. Preambles
Aren't required; strange images burst through
Doors, which left ajar let in the brambles
And incoherence snares at reason, too.
So all is mad. Where sanity rambles,
Lunacy crouches and leaps to grab you.